


among the multitude

by appomattox



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, tuberculosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:42:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23917738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appomattox/pseuds/appomattox
Summary: He wakes to the oddly-metallic sound of coughing, and he opens his eyes to find a hulking cyborg sitting on the neighboring bed. As his fit subsides, the cyborg glances up and meets Hux’s eyes, then reaches out one long, spindly arm and flicks the curtain shut between them.⁂Or: The Consumption AU
Relationships: Grievous | Qymaen jai Sheelal/Armitage Hux
Kudos: 5





	among the multitude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rabbit_of_inle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbit_of_inle/gifts).



> title from [walt whitman](https://whitmanarchive.org/published/LG/1891/poems/81) :)
> 
> inspired by some folks on the discord (you know who you are).
> 
> if you clicked this bc of the ship i want you to know that you are WILD but i respect you.

The sanatorium’s corridors are ancient and damp; clumps of moss grow in the cracks between the rough-hewn stones which form the walls, barely taller than the average man. The arched ceiling rises to an apex only about a foot over Hux’s head, and he must stoop through doorways. To make matters worse, the facility’s layout is akin to a maze. The orderly leads him through the winding halls unerringly, only stopping once they’ve reached their destination.

“Your bed, Mr. Hux,” says the orderly, gesturing to one low cot out of a dozen lined up along the walls of the room, separated only by stark white curtains, many of which are pulled closed for some semblance of privacy.

Hux doesn’t correct the man on his title. What would be the point? There are no generals six feet under the ground, which is where Hux is headed eventually. Only a matter of time — _months_ , the physicians tell him optimistically. He clears his throat and nods his head in thanks at the orderly, who leaves him to his own devices. Other patients mill down the center aisle, and still more lie prone in their beds, coughing miserably. Soon, that will be Hux.

For now, though, he has yet to take leave of his senses, and his body still retains enough strength for light walking.

The bed next to his is empty, although obviously claimed, judging by the smattering of personal effects on the table beside it. He idly wonders about his neighbor as he sets his portmanteau on the bed and flips the latches open. His meager belongings fill less than half of the case, and he resignedly unpacks them. It doesn’t take long. Once he’s finished, he lays down on the lumpy, squeaky cot and closes his eyes, exhausted from his travels.

He wakes to the oddly-metallic sound of coughing, and he opens his eyes to find a hulking cyborg sitting on the neighboring bed. As his fit subsides, the cyborg glances up and meets Hux’s eyes, then reaches out one long, spindly arm and flicks the curtain shut between them.

Hux sighs and rolls over, a tickle at the back of his throat the only forewarning of his own coughing fit. Bloody sputum hits the white sheet and Hux digs through his pockets for a handkerchief to wipe his mouth.

⁂

The abject humiliation of being cared for night and day by doctors and nurses drives Hux nearly out of his mind; he casts about for a distraction for nearly a week — first reading, which turns monotonous, then composing, which is an activity ill-suited to both this environment and Hux’s temperament. Finally, while lying in bed staring at the ceiling, Hux is pulled from his daydreams by a sharp rasping noise. The thought of socialization then occurs to him, and he sits up to reach for the curtain.

His neighbor, the cyborg, jolts at his appearance and then emits a near-growl.

“Hello there,” Hux says. It isn’t the first time in a week he’s spoken, but it’s near enough that his voice comes out embarrassingly rough, and he clears his throat. “I’m Hux. And you are?”

“Grievous.” His voice is like the grating of metal on metal, although ordinarily that would be verging on painful; this, however, is oddly soothing. He follows it up with a few coughs into his arm.

“It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” Hux says, holding out one hand. “We have been neighbors for nearly a week, after all.”

Grievous hums, sounding somewhat like the exhaust of a steam engine, and Hux can’t tell if it’s a noise of agreement or annoyance. He looks down at Hux’s outstretched hand but doesn’t move to shake it. Perhaps annoyance, then.

Hux pulls his hand back. “I don’t suppose you play chess?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, his eyes landing on the small travel-size chessboard he had brought with him.

“I have been known to, on occasion,” Grievous replies, and Hux hopes he’s isn’t imagining the humorous tone; it’s hard to tell with this one.

Grievous, it turns out, is a superb chess player and a worthy opponent. He beats Hux three times out of five, although Hux insists the cough that came over him suddenly during the last game put him at an unfair disadvantage.

⁂

Hux would be content to sit inside and make light conversation over a chessboard, but Grievous takes a turn around the garden every evening, claiming that the fresh air helps to “open the lungs.” Hux replies that his lungs are open enough, thank you, and if anything they ought to be more _closed_ , and he punctuates the sentiment with a pointed cough.

Still, he’s tired of being left alone in the evening while Grievous enjoys the outside air, so he invites himself along. Grievous doesn’t object — Hux had suspected the discussion was a veiled invitation — and in fact seems almost pleased. It’s nearly impossible to glean any emotions from Grievous’ face, but Hux likes to think that over the past few weeks of conversing he’s become quite adept at reading the cyborg’s tone of voice.

After a month of cooping himself up indoors, the fresh air makes Hux light-headed and giddy. Grievous, too, seems lighter out here, and Hux stares up at him in wonderment as he tells him about the trees and the birds and the flowers which have made this yard their home. Hux had never given much mind to botany or ornithology before, believing the studies to be largely impractical, but now he begins to understand that practicality is, perhaps, not the point. Through Grievous’ eyes, he can see the beauty in the pattern of tree bark just as well as in the geometry of a flower.

Grievous points out a clump of lupines and shyly admits that they are his favorite. Hux gently runs his fingers over the long purple flower-stalks and, once Grievous has turned his back to continue the tour, he plucks a few of them and stows them safely in his breast pocket. Perhaps he’ll press them, later — his copy of _Leaves of Grass_ should be heavy enough for the task.

The sound of ocean waves is clear and strong out here, and when Hux mentions it, Grievous asks him, “Have you been there yet?”

Hux shakes his head. “This is the first I’ve been outside since I arrived.”

Grievous makes a clicking sound. “I will take you there.”

“Is it far?”

“A few minutes’ walk,” Grievous replies after taking a moment to think.

“Then I shall work up to it,” Hux says. “I fear I am in no condition to undertake such a journey.”

Grievous nods. “You will accompany me to the garden each day until you are strong enough.”

Hux bites back a smile. “That doesn’t sound so bad.” His gaze alights on an unidentified flower and he steps around Grievous to caress it with one finger. “What’s this one, then?”

Grievous tells him about that one, and the insects that live in harmony with it, and the birds that feast on those insects, until the sun sinks over the horizon and then he corrals Hux back inside.

⁂

As promised, Hux accompanies Grievous to the garden each evening. After Grievous has shown him every living creature there, they turn their conversations to other topics. Occasionally, Hux brings the chessboard and they play among the flowers and the bees.

Hux had expected his stay in the sanatorium to be miserable — likely, that’s what his father had intended when he sent him here rather than hire a live-in caretaker. He doesn’t mean to speak this thought aloud, but it spills out one evening in the garden.

Grievous regards him with bright, sorrowful eyes and takes his hand gently into his own claws. “A family which does not support each other is no family at all. This man who has cast you aside — he is not your father.”

Hux blinks back the tears which have suddenly sprung up. Grievous’ hand is cool, but Hux’s heart feels all the warmer for it. He glances around to be sure they’re alone and then raises his other hand to touch Grievous’ faceplate. “Perhaps next time, we shall go to the beach,” he says, stroking his thumb over Grievous’ vocal emitters.

⁂

Hux takes a turn for the worse. Doctors and nurses fret over him, wondering how he could have deteriorated so quickly, all while Hux struggles to breathe.

The curtain is drawn shut, not by Grievous or Hux but by their caretakers’ insistence that Hux needs _rest_.

Hux has no idea how much time has passed when he blinks out of his stupor. He could’ve been out for hours, or days, or perhaps months; the room is the same as it’s always been. He feels different, though: weak, half-corporeal. He turns his head on the pillow and stares at the curtain for what feels like hours before finally mustering the strength to sit up and pull it open.

Grievous isn’t there. Frantic, Hux slides out of bed, his legs like a newborn foal’s, and stumbles down the aisle, down the hall, into the garden. The cool breeze strikes him like a brick in the face and he stops to breathe, leaning on the wall and focusing on the lupines in front of him. A cough rises in his chest and he stares in horror at the now blood-spattered flowers. He wipes the back of one hand over his mouth and the red stain nearly makes him retch.

Hydraulic whirring is his only warning before sharp claws land on his shoulder and sharper eyes meet his own. “Grievous,” he breathes, leaning against the cyborg. “I should like to be taken to the beach now.”

Wordlessly, Grievous bundles him up into his arms and carries him out of the garden, down the overgrown path to the ocean. Hux stares up at the gulls overhead as salt stings his nostrils; he breathes as deeply as he can.

Grievous deposits him onto the sand just out of reach of the waves and Hux tugs him down to sit beside him.

“What a pair we make,” Hux says, though he isn’t entirely sure what he means by it. Metal claws make their way between his fingers and he grips them tightly. “Thank you. For making life worthwhile, even if only for a short time. A too-short time,” he whispers, staring into Grievous’ piercing eyes. “Dear Grievous.”

A low whine sounds from Grievous’ vocal emitters. “Dear Hux,” he says. “The time could be longer yet.”

Hux shakes his head. His breath momentarily fails him and he gasps. He squeezes his hand tighter. “Look in my books, in _Leaves of Grass_. There’s something there for you.” He brings his other hand up to the side of Grievous’ face and pulls him in, pressing his lips to his vocal emitters. There’s a smear of blood and he wipes it away as he says, “We’ll meet again, love, on the other side.”

His vision fades and he collapses limply against Grievous. His last sensation is of Grievous’ anguished cries.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://denimsnake.tumblr.com/), but don't go there expecting more stuff like this. this is a special occasion thing.


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